


Some Kind of Answer

by Trillsabells



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Eclampsia, F/M, Mary is not evil, Mycroft is evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trillsabells/pseuds/Trillsabells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary has a visitor to her hospital room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Answer

The worst job she had ever had was Sean Durnin; an American arms dealer whose main customers were the IRA, and who had a tendency to drum up business by dressing his minions as British police officers and having them beat up Catholic school kids. 

To start with the intelligence she had been given had been wildly out of date. She had turned up at Durnin’s farm in County Down, expecting to find him there alone, when it fact he wasn’t there at all. Instead, the farm had been filled with his cronies. After an initial greeting, which resulted in what later turned out to be a broken leg, she spent the next three days and nights awake, hiding out in cover so bad she might as well have been sitting out in the rain.

When Durnin had finally deigned to show his face, she had taken great pleasure in killing the lot of them, and, after calling backup, had promptly passed out. By the time she had woken up it was two days later, she had been flown home and her leg had been set. Her first act upon regaining consciousness had been to ask for more pain medication.

She had thought nothing would come close to that level of pain and exhaustion. That was before a thirty-eight hour labour.

Thirty-eight hours. And when finally her little girl had been born she had been so tiny. How could it have taken thirty-eight bloody hours to produce something so tiny? Especially when she was over a week past her due date. She entirely blamed John for the delay. Their daughter had clearly inherited his stubbornness. Baby had decided not to come out so there had been no arguing with her.

Oh god, the teenage years were going to be nightmare.

John had laughed when she told him that, but then John had laughed at practically everything since their baby girl had been put into his arms. He was so bloody happy it was enough to make someone cry.

She may have cried, although just a little. For god’s sake, she’d just pushed a person out of her body on zero hours sleep, she could be forgiven for crying.

God she was so tired. John kept going on and on about how tired he was, the unsuffering bastard, but how he couldn’t bear to take his eyes off her – her being the still unnamed baby, who irritatingly did not look the slightest bit like a Rose. So she had told him to keep his eyes on baby and let her sleep.

John had laughed at that as well, but had obligingly taken the baby away to be introduced to the group gathering in the waiting room. Or rather, to Sherlock, who was in the waiting room. Thirty-eight hours ago she would have said that wild horses couldn’t have kept her from seeing Sherlock’s face when he first saw the baby. She had been looking forward to it for weeks and could picture it exactly. The uncertainty, the confusion, the awkward way he would hold the baby, the alarm on his face when John first referred to him as ‘Uncle Sherlock’. Still, she would see it again next time ‘Uncle Sherlock’ came to visit. And right now all she could think of was sleep.

 

She didn’t know how long she was asleep. One moment John was kissing her on the forehead wishing her sweet dreams, the next Mycroft Holmes was standing at the end of her bed.

She had scarcely spoken two words to Mycroft in the whole time she had known him. Even when she had spent Christmas with his and Sherlock’s parents he had barely acknowledged her presence. While she was aware that her care at this private hospital was thanks to Mycroft’s ample pocketbook, she had assumed it had been Sherlock who had arranged it all. Or, at the very least, that the gesture had been more for John’s sake than her own. What the hell was Mycroft doing in her room?

“Ah,” Mycroft said in a casual sort of tone you might use to talk about the weather, “Miss Adams, you’re awake.”

It was a measure of how tired she was that her first thought was simply ‘Shit’.

A moment later her instincts kicked in. Sensitive spots on Mycroft’s neck, chest and head all unprotected, even in her current state she could be up and incapacitate Mycroft before he had a chance to call for help. No obvious signs of monitoring, but no guarantee that there weren’t hidden bugs pre-set up by Mycroft when he had arranged for her to have this particular room. Or there was always the possibility that Mycroft was wearing a wire and had colleagues listening in ready to act at a moment’s notice. The window was unlocked, but would never open far enough for her, with her extra weight, to be able to fit through. At least five unsecured pieces of furniture could be used to break the window, however, they were at least on the third floor and from where she was lying she couldn’t see whether there was anything for her to climb onto. Better chance would be the door. The staff could be in Mycroft’s employ, or at least have been prepped to leave her to Mycroft’s mercy. If she could get to the waiting room where Sherlock and John were they would ensure there was nothing Mycroft could do to harm her, especially not in the presence of other witnesses and her own baby. Only risk was that she didn’t know where the waiting room was. Best plan of action; stall and wait for John to come back.

As much as it rankled her to wait to be rescued like some damsel in distress, when the man Sherlock described as The British Government knows your real name you take any chance you’ve got.

“Mrs Watson,” she corrected him.

“Did you really think, Miss Adams,” Mycroft said, in the same calm tone, “that I was unaware as to who shot and killed my brother.”

“Killed?” What? “He’s fine. He’s outside awkwardly holding my baby right now.”

He was, wasn’t she? She hadn’t been out of it that long?

“His heart stopped for over two minutes on the operating table,” Mycroft said as if there was a mildly interesting storm front moving over Sussex. “The surgeons briefly gave up on him. Thankfully he was able to pull through. Through sheer force of will it seems.”

Oh god. She hadn’t known that. She thought she had been so careful, avoiding the lungs and the heart, and calling the ambulance immediately. Nearly dead on the table? God, no.

“He made it though.”

“True. But he still technically died at your hand.”

She wondered whether getting into an argument of ‘did not, did too’ would help stall long enough for John to come back. Preferably with Sherlock in tow, so he could talk down his brother.

“He’s forgiven me, so I don’t see why it’s anything of your business.”

“Everything about my brother is my business, Miss Adams.”

“Mrs Watson,” she said, “and if you’re going to arrest me you’ve picked a really bad time.”

Mycroft smiled. Or rather his lips stretched slightly to the sides in a sort of rictus expression – there was no humour to it at all.

“Trust me, Miss Adams,” he said, “if I were planning on arresting you, I would have done it five months ago. After all, maternity care is available in prison.”

That did not sound the slightest bit good. John, where are you? Stop cooing over the damn baby and get back here.

“So what are you planning?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve already done it.”

Shit, shit, shit. 

She tried to tense, ready to move at the slightest moment, but her limbs wouldn’t co-operate. She felt suddenly heavy, like her arms were filled with rocks.

“I’ve injected a drug into your blood stream that should,” Mycroft checked his watch, “shortly cause you to seize and stop breathing. The death certificate will read eclampsia. Not an uncommon form of maternal mortality.”

That took a second to sink in.

“JOHN!” It hurt to shout, there was a tightness in her chest like a ball around her lungs. “JOHN!”

“No one outside this room can hear you, Miss Adams, it was chosen with great care.”

“You won’t get away with this.”

It was suddenly hard to breathe. Was this it? Was Mycroft’s drug kicking in? Or was she just hyperventilating because her husband’s best friend’s brother was going to kill her and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it?

“Your medical file has already been changed to show slightest symptoms of possible pre-eclampsia. Nothing obvious enough that the doctors might be found to be negligent for missing it but just enough for a post-mortem panel to be satisfied as to cause of death.” 

“Sherlock will know,” she said, gasping for breath. “He’ll know and he’ll never forgive you. He’s killed for me once already, remember?”

“Another reason why this was the best course of action,” said Mycroft, rolling his eyes as if his little brother putting a bullet through someone’s head for her sake was a mild irritation. “But no, not even Sherlock Holmes could spot my interference here. I’ve been very careful.”

She needed to breathe. She needed to calm. Calm down, get control. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. There was still time, she could find some way to get out of this if she could just breathe. She managed three days up a tree with a broken leg, she could do this. Talk him down. Keep at the Sherlock angle. Maybe there’s a cure. Maybe John will come back.

“If you wanted him to believe it you should have killed me just after I gave birth. He’ll never buy it now.”

Mycroft tilted his head to one side. “That would have helped, certainly, but unfortunately it wasn’t an option.”

Keep him talking.

“Why not?”

“Because I am not a cruel man, Miss Adams.”

She almost laughed, but as her head tilted back she was hit with a sudden wave of dizziness.

“John’s child does not deserve to suffer for your attempted murder. This was why I waited until after you had given birth and when I was certain that she would be entering a safe and loving home.”  
In. Out.

“After all,” Mycroft continued, “once you are dead, John is most likely to move back in with Sherlock, and it would be less cruel to let a child die than doom them to a life with a self-professed sociopath with scientific interests.”

In. In. In. Out.

“I had to make sure that Sherlock had the capacity to at least acknowledge John’s child as a person of interest, rather than just a noisy accessory. Therefore, I observed them in the waiting room.”

In. In. Come on, please, in.

“I have only once before seen Sherlock look at another human being with such awe. Such adoration. You can rest assured that he will take very good care of both John and his daughter.”

She couldn’t see. She couldn’t… she couldn’t.

“And I, as always, will take very good care of all three of them. I’ll see myself out, Miss Adams. Goodb-“


End file.
